


Unintentional Vulnerability

by brokenEisenglas



Series: Stony Bingo 2019 Round 1 [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, POV Wanda Maximoff, Post-Infinity War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stony Bingo, Vulnerability, unintentional vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 12:30:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18965290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: It’s grey, cold but warm. Wrong. It feels wrong. There, there are others, maybe? Unexplained presence surrounds her, close enough to press but unable for her to touch. Why, why can’t she, she can’t hear them. She should be able to, why can’t she—Fire engulfs her.





	Unintentional Vulnerability

**Author's Note:**

> This is, in fact, an MCU SteveTony get-together fic. It is also in Wanda's POV.
> 
> I had the idea for this square pop into my head while at work one day. I wanted to explore something a little different, and with the prompts between the Tony Stark Bingo and the Stony Bingo, I realized... why not Wanda?  
>  I tried playing with the idea with other characters; other approaches I might use, but none of the ideas quite clicked like this one did. There is something inherently different and unique about using Wanda as a means to tell a story. Part of the appeal is, in fact, the stigma surrounding the character. The MCU Directors and writers didn't do her justice for the Infinity War saga. Fandom, however... gosh. Do I have some fics that I love that have her character development, just, applause. Absolute applause.  
>  The second appeal is from the, not rarity- because they aren't 'rare' per se- of outsider POV on the SteveTony dynamic, personal interest in friendship "hook-up" culture. Which, I think that's not the correct term. I mean, where a friend sees their friend pining after someone and then gets an inkling that the other person might not be 'not so uninterested' and proceeds to rectify the issue. I wanted to do that, but with a more personally driven motive. In this story, I'm keeping Wanda in a maturation limbo: she's definitely a woman, but still has the childish nature about her as a result of her trauma. Here, she's closer to my own age, and, I feel like that's a level of self-awareness that I, too, wanted to be more aware of.
> 
> The order of the characters in the tags reflects the order of the "screen time" they have in the fic, although their roles in driving the narrative may not reflect.
> 
> Warnings:  
> 1\. Wanda's POV. This means that there will be some mentioning of inter-character relationships and dynamics that may not appeal. Note who is included in the noted Character tags. There are a few up spots and a few downers. Don't bash her here.
> 
> 2\. Nightmares. None are explicitly defined, but the elements driving them are mentioned. Also, mentions of exhaustion, suggestions of insomnia and intense crashes.
> 
> 3\. Civil War is mentioned but not explored. Please, no discourse in the comments.
> 
> 4\. "Everyone lives" AU approach. I have a general idea of the hows of the possibilities here, but, I don't really plan to explain.
> 
> 5\. Unintentional Dream invasion. And, sometimes that goes both ways. So, Age Of Ultron elements here, if that bothers you... It isn't graphic, but it is mentioned.
> 
> Overall, this fic is pretty relaxed and laid back.
> 
> For the Round 1 Stony Bingo 2019, Y2 Square: Vulnerability

_It’s grey, cold but warm. Wrong. It feels_ wrong _. There, there are others, maybe? Unexplained presence surrounds her, close enough to press but unable for her to touch. Why, why can’t she, she can’t hear them. She should be able to, why can’t she—_

_Fire engulfs her._

She wakes gasping. Each breath stokes the embers left in the nightmare’s wake, but there is nothing there to catch and burn.

“Wanda?”

Her time in the soul stone is left murky in her memories. It had been odd, the feeling of floating, of being unmoored in space of energy and nothingness. She could sense others, in the peripheral of her consciousness. All of them there, coexisting in this space of nothingness, but nothing was all that surrounded them. The memories are nothing yet also something, a state of lukewarm suspension.

Then why does she _burn_?

 “Wanda,” the cool touch of a hand to her forehead kindly guides her back to herself. “Come back to me, Wanda. Come back to me.” With every stroke of coolness across her cheeks, the fire recedes. “That’s it.”

By the time she opens her eyes, the nightmare is but an echo, distant from her own consciousness. It radiates through the room, present but separate from herself. The same energy she felt in the dream-memory.

Around them, the fire lingers.

 “Viz?” Her lips feel dry. They are in bed together. Vision lay beside her, close but not touching. He has regulated his body temperature, cooling the heat from which she suffers. His eyes glow, like a lightning storm on the horizon; he stares at her, concern writ deep in the lines of his brow and the minute scrunch of his face. She clears her throat, licks her lips, and tries again, “Vision?”

He smiles. “Yes. There you are.” His hand is smooth, uncalloused, where it traces the curve of her cheek, down her jaw. He was always so careful with her, even in the beginning when they weren’t sure where they wished to take this thing they had. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

“What did you see?” She asks because that is the ultimate question. Not a matter of _if_ he saw, but rather _what_ he saw. It isn’t the first time, nor does she expect it to be the last. For the worst of her dreams, her magic bleeds. Something she has had to curb as her powers have grown.

“I saw nothing,” he concedes.

But, it wasn’t what she saw that woke her.

Even in the rubble of their fallen Sokovian home, fire had never haunted her. Fire is not a demon she fears. This… was not her dream.

That is another aspect of her magic’s burgeoning strength. In moments of lowered inhibitions, not only has she projected… she’s acquired, shared the dreams of others.

The acquisition isn’t consistent; it doesn’t happen with ever one of her own nightly terrors. Nor does it follow a logical pattern of assimilation of others’ presences. It ebbs and flows, sometimes in dreams and others as waking visions.

She covers the hand on her jaw, and squeezes the tears from her eyes.

As though distantly, she hears but does not understand Vision’s distant murmurs of consolation and concern.

Since the world’s righting and the return of the taken, the Avengers have been staying in the compound. None stay for long, resting periodically within the fortified walls before returning to the field and aiding where they can. The compound just happens to be a logical and strategic rally point. Its systems are self-sustained, keeping it functional even as much of the rest of the world struggles on. The thought pangs her heart with renewed ache. They haven’t abandoned the rest of the world, absolutely not. Where they are called, they go, and Stark—Tony, she chides herself—has been working on a global sustainable energy initiative in the wake of the disaster. Always moving, always going.

_He’s in the compound_ , a thought whispers.

No one who has been in the compound or on its premises in the last months dreams of fire.

_He burns_.

When she opens her eyes, Vision remains above her still so concerned.

“It was fire.”

Chilled lips press upon her own as the tears crest and pour.

 

They go on a six day mission in the Southeast to clear out and rebuild a community ravaged by fires caused by the first Snap. The damage left in the flames’ wake dulls the land. The air is sooty, and smells of burnt wood, metal, and dirt. Concrete and metal debris litter the earth. There are the faint odors of chemicals floating in the air.

She uses her powers to move debris, contain and clear unsafe areas, and overall provide where needed. She has been cautious of her displays of power within the view of civilians, but had been reassured by the team that efforts like these would be more beneficial than not. In fact, when they begin lunch rotations, her communicator vibrates and blips, a video message sent.

She smiles at the fuzzy footage of the two kids hyping up ‘how cool the Avengers are’ and ‘how awesome the Witch is.’ Wanda makes sure to thank St-Tony for the video link before she finishes and goes back to work.

Since the incident in the compound, she hasn’t had another episode; her powers giving reprieve from the intimate horrors others suffer. The team she’s with has been a great help to her own recovery.

Steve and Barnes have spent most of their time in the actual construction projects, playfully tossing jabs back-and-forth as they’ve gone from task to task. Their camaraderie radiates across the field everywhere they go. In this moment, she pauses to soak and enjoy.

“Letting everyone else do the work?”

Wanda smiles. “Hello, Jessica.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jessica Jones, a tentative new Avenger. One of many heroes to have emerged from the woodwork after all had fallen. She’s brusque, funny, unruly, and a heavy drinker. Wanda likes her. “Don’t let Rogers see. He’ll take your toys.”

“It wasn’t a toy, Jones,” Steve yells in the distance.

“Flask, toy, semantics.” She shrugs. The following, “I’m on lunch,” is said just loud enough to be pointed to the soldiers working in the background.

“Enjoy,” she giggles.

The team has grown, a lot, and while not all the new teammates technically agree to join the Avengers, they do offer their strengths where needed. Those without Accords agreements stay nationwide, the others who signed move globally.

They’re efficient; their strength growing with their numbers and diversity, abilities and walks of life. She’s proud to be here with them.

Their day continues on successfully, and by the time they had left and taken the Quinjet home, she was ready to wash and rest. Vision was still on site elsewhere with Stark and the Spiderchild, and as much as she missed him, she is glad he isn’t here. The mission hadn’t gone badly, not at all. In fact, it had gone rather smoothly. But, upon returning, the ash on her skin, the dust… it lingers. She scrubs vigorously in the shower, removing its traces even though she knows the memories themselves won’t disappear with it.

When the nightmares begin, she expects fire to encroach on the emptiness, that uncomfortable cold/warm with the untouchable others nearby, the floating endlessly in nothingness that is everything.

Instead, there’s ice.

 

She continues to remain unable to ascertain when their dreams will invade. Some nights there is nothing; at least, nothing from them. Other nights, their terrors travel through the air like sound through water; present and greater nearer the source, but muffled and distorted by barrier and distance.

Fire and ice, then sands and waters. Darkness and threats on the horizon, bright light and danger at hand. Both unable to prevent the massacres that came and passed. And, within each nightmare, each terrible vision shared with her in echoes of feeling or in vibrant picture, a body lay strewn across the ground.

_Never enough—always too late._

 

The nightmares are worse when they both reside within the compound.

Tony’s are the loudest, with the most chaos. Like juggling too many things or trying to hold sand. Fire, burning, pain, cold, empty, soundless, _can’t breathe_. _Protect. Don’t let them die. Protect, protect, prot—_

Steve’s are… quieter, but no less painful. The memory of ice, of filled lungs and restricted movement. Cold so cold it burns. Empty, but not soundless. Lost time, of _too late. Not fast enough. Can’t move; get up. Go! Help, fight, fight, run, fight, protect. Don’t let him—_

It’s as if their shared presence circulates in a feedback loop. They fear; they protect. They argue; they despair. They fight; they love. They want, but do not ask. They give, but don’t take.

While Tony’s writhe like the trapped and dying, Steve’s drown like the lost and defeated. One screams, the other gasps.

She’s awake and aware when Vision arrives in her room, “I sensed your unease.”

“I’m worried about them.”

“Show me?”

 

It’s almost four in the morning when she gasps awake. With each breath, frustration replaces the fear. When her body finally stops its tremors, she groans.

She is tired, and the terrors are worse, nightly. Sometimes they happen in the day. The exhaustion is leading to receptivity which leads to more exhaustion, and she suspects her own fears and insecurities are now feeding both of their dreams. She is part of the loop, and she knows she won’t survive it much longer.

She has to do something.

Red circles her fingers as she ponders. Between him and Steve, Stark’s visions are the more intrusive and more consistent. She could suppress them; maybe even actively alter them if she were awake when one intrudes. She knows that she shouldn’t, that despite the hesitant cordiality between them, Stark still fears her and fears what she is capable of.  She _could_ do it, but shaky ground still rests beneath her feet and… it’s a terrible breach of privacy. Sure, she currently unintentionally spies on their vulnerabilities, but if she were to actively address them? What, then, would that make her? What role does she play or right does she have?

She will not repeat history. Never again.

Speaking to Stark isn’t an option.

 

“Steve?” He’s lounging on the communal couch sketching. From here, she is unable to see what he’s chosen as his muse, but if his dreams have been any indication, she believes she may have an idea who it is. “Hey.”

“Hmm, oh! Wanda!” He’s up quickly and efficiently. The sketchpad is slammed shut and tossed onto the coffee table. Large hands wipe graphite onto a crumpled Tee while sweats bunch and ride up his legs. He follows her eyes, and swiftly pulls the pants back down to cover the tops of the Iron Man calf-length socks. It’s very rare for her to see him rumpled and laid back. With the way he darts his eyes and clears his throat, smiling shyly, she thinks that maybe he knows that, too. Concern quickly replaces any sheepish inclination, “You okay? You’re not usually up this late.”

“No, I’m not.”

She’s exhausted.

“What- what’s wrong? Wanda, what’s—“ he’s up on his feet, approaching her with hand reaching out. Sincerity wafts off him in thick pungent aural waves, and she’s suddenly lost her resolve and patience. He stops short, eyes wide in genuine surprise and an unsure fear. Red reflects off the glass surfaces throughout the communal room, glistening in the fluid of his tired and fearful eyes. Aside from the vision she showed him years ago, he has never been on the receiving end of her powers. She doesn’t plan for that to ever happen.

“I can ‘hear’ you.”

“What?”

“Both of you. I’m tired, and so are you. And so is _he_. Go to him.”

“Wanda, what, wha-,” Steve falters. He’s confused. She doesn’t know why; it’s obvious to anyone who looks.

“Every night it’s the same. Fire, emptiness, echoes, ice, blood, fear. So much fear. It creeps in. The world _burns_ ,” she hisses the last word. His hands move minutely, a micro-gesture asking her to settle, to calm her powers and be rational. She _is_ being rational. She’s just tired.

“Wanda, I don’t— Who are you talking about?”

 “Stark,” she spits. An old feeling of disdain awakens and surges within her chest. She does not hate the man, “You are both so _loud_. I don’t want to listen. They are _not_ my nightmares to see. But, over and over again, they play. Stark’s fire; his visions scream the way his voice won’t allow. And, you.”

A visible shiver runs through the pajama-clad soldier’s body where he stands before her. He looks so _vulnerable_.

The ghosting memory of a cool caress across her brow and the whispers of love and concern soothe the raging storm brewing inside her.

Steve stands rigid across from her. He’s raised his hands, ready to attack or defend depending on what she does next. For the first time, she knows he is clearly seeing what she is capable of. What she could have been. Who she—

“I wasn’t sure if those were you or not,” the voice interrupts from the doorway.

The air in the room shifts, transitioning from the stifling frustration and threat to a clammy gut-churning sickness. Wanda senses the reflection of her own deep-seated aches in the old soldier across from her. They both drop their positions, loosening muscles and taking deep breaths.

Stark leans against the doorjamb, body physically projecting a sense of ‘loose and casual’—wearing light baggy flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved band Tee a size too big while plodding around in bared feet— despite the pinch around his eyes and the twitching of his fingers. For Wanda, he’s seeped in fight-or-flight, a complete sense of terror the others wouldn’t know even existed.

“Are those memories of the time in the soul stone?” He asks nonchalantly.

The question shouldn’t come as a shock-- she’s aware of her ability to project her own dreams into others’—but the genuine consideration does surprise her. Instead of answering, she nods.

“Closest feeling I’ve had to that sort of suspended animation was during New York,” he shifts, leaving the doorway to walk over to a recliner on the other side of the room, away from her and Steve. They’re both aware of what he’s done; the cluttered coffee table separates them, a barrier between him and two stronger ‘opponents.’

She’s not here to fight.

It’s with this thought that she forces herself to fully relax her muscles and sit. Steve follows her lead, briefly closing his eyes and breathing deeply, visibly counting as he releases the air.

When they’re all settled, the atmosphere around them shifts. Tranquil is the closest word she can currently think of to describe it, but doesn’t quite contain the essence of the moment.

This is the first time since the Accords that the three of them have sat in a room together. She surveys the other two, deftly avoiding each other’s gazes. Tony continues with his forced ease while Steve can’t decide if he wants to look-up, down, around, at hands, Tony, Wanda, or leave in general.

Wanda wants to go back to bed.

She needs a real night’s sleep.

The silence goes on long enough for her nerves to fray, and she’s breathing in to speak when Tony clears his throat. Steve snaps to attention; eyes open, back straightening, and waits.

“We need to talk.”

_Finally_.

 

The nightmares continue, though their frequency and intensity vary. Stark’s are still the loudest, raging like the heat and fire they incorporate, but do not last. When the sands shift and the sun beats down, and the vast empty of space looms, suddenly he is no longer alone. When the waters crash in and the chill begins, there is no time for the ice to form; a hand reaches down and pulls the body from the water’s depths.

And if sleep comes readily and happily for the first time in months, Wanda can only smile.

Because, there is no ‘apart.’

Beside her, Vision lies as a comforting presence, a reminder of her tangible and living reality; while elsewhere within the protective walls of the Avengers’ home, fire and ice, land and sea, protect and serve rest peacefully. _Together._

As it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Suggestions? I'm trying to branch out a bit... I'm not certain it's working, but... (shrug)


End file.
